


Tainted

by GeekishChic



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Age Difference, BDSM, Dark, F/M, M/M, MorMor Parentlock AU, Takes Place After TRF, That's How AU, Trigger Warning: References To Child Molestation, Twisted, Violence, like really au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-27
Updated: 2014-08-27
Packaged: 2018-02-14 23:57:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2207841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GeekishChic/pseuds/GeekishChic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From the mouths of babes...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tainted

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry it's so short. My feels to expression ratio is woefully unbalanced.
> 
> Now Playing: Marilyn Manson's version of Soft Cell's "Tainted Love".  
> Now Drinking: Vodka and Coke Zero

 

 

 

 

Child abduction was so normal, so mind-numbingly ordinary that it usually didn't even warrant any personal attention on his part. But the boring often had to be endured when dealing with anyone who wasn't himself. Besides, he had a reputation to uphold, a businesses to run, a facade to maintain. Sometimes people needed to be made an example of and this family was as good an opportunity as any.  It had to be proven, every so often that he could get to anyone, anywhere, and do anything. A ten year old girl "hidden" away at her grandmother's a few thousand miles away was so easy, it hardly even counted as a crime. 

 

Not unlike the ancient Incan sacrificial maidens, she was to be transported to her fate in luxury, a few falsely kind words from himself enough to calm her, a few more to lure her into playing the game with them. With only minor hesitation did she trade her most special brand of female child wiles for a journey in an aeroplane outfitted as if it transported the most beloved of a sultan's brood. Redressed in pale pink silk and organza, she made enourmous eyes the blue/green/grey of the sea impossibly larger, changed the wind's direction with the batting of desperately long lashes, and made sure the only thing that outshone the pure sunlight of her golden waves was her smile.  

 

The cabin crew, hand-picked from a tiny Eastern European country with a dialect of Bulgarian so extreme it was almost a separate language, fell instant victim to all of this, as well as the farce that she was the Prime Minister's niece. They fawned over her cloyingly, exclaiming over her perfect angelic face and attempted pronunciation of words in their language. There was a creeping sense of something akin to  _Doom_  in her comportment that he caught a delicious taste of. There was no doubt she was used to playing the role of dutiful daughter, even at her tender age, because of her place in society. Her candidates for betrothal were probably already chosen for her. He'd murdered, pillaged, and enslaved but  _that_  was positively barbaric. There was a flash of something, however, in the depths of her oceanic eyes that seemed a trap, her outward appearance perhaps the bioluminescent lure into the gaping, razor-toothed maw of an Anglerfish. 

 

At least, he  _thought_ that was it. He was almost never wrong about " _It_ ". His pet tiger, who was watching her sharply with a nearly visible flicking tail had " _It_ " in spades. So did the late great Sherlock Holmes and even. to some degree, that... what exactly was John Watson? Prickly is what he was. Spiny, like an angry little hedgehog. Despite his chuckle-worthy jumpers, an inherent murkiness existed within him, within them all, making them kindred spirits of a sort. For all he thought he observed in that moment, however, she was shrieking and sniveling most convincingly, bound yet un-gagged unlike her, frankly, less than doting parents across from whom her chair was set far enough away to give his big kitty room to work.

 

And how he loved to watch him at it, all corded lean muscle writhing beneath a fitted black tee shirt, those camouflage trousers with all the pockets that he favoured for storing all of his little toys and snacks. He had to blend in with the natural environment sometimes, his Tiger, in order to carry out his master's desires. He wielded his claws and teeth with precision, toying with his prey and  making a beautiful mess to match his own inner one. He was an efficient machine, the only thing in him resembling emotion being loyalty. He was a precision tool, like the superior craftsmanship of a samurai sword, or the well-loved Browning the Hedgehog favoured. But a tool was only as effective as the one who wielded it, the puppet beholden to its master, and James Moriarty could make this particular one dance like no other.

 

His charcoal Westwood trousers were growing increasingly tight in the area just below his belt as he beheld the vision of his pet having the time of his life, slowly dispatching the lovely couple in front of the suitably horrified girl. Moran may even receive the extra special treat of bottoming this evening. He'd play it by ear, because if the eyes had all the votes, he would have him right here on the bed of carnage he'd created. 

 

The _coup de grace_  was something of an anomaly. With some final precise cuts to the human tableau, his beloved feline released the continuously screeching child who launched herself toward her dying parents. James and Sebastian held hands as if watching a demonstration at a fair, the sparkle in the latter's otherwise flat pale green eyes his version of a genuine smile that would have been utterly terrifying had it been physically manifested. James gleefully snickered in a quiet tone so as not to miss a single moment of the child's bitter weeping, not one word of her pleas as she clung to her parents drawing final breaths.

 

Everything froze when she did.

 

Even the tears on her face seemed to simply stop moving as opposed to drying or dripping or anything kinesthetic. Whatever flash he saw on the plane was now radiating from her rather small form in full splendor. 

 

And it was glorious.

 

Those eyes, those spectacularly savage eyes went back and forth between the drooping figures that had been charged with her safety and education. Their failure in one bolstered the other exponentially. Only the tedious rabble would consider it the wrong direction. She circled the couple, hands clasped behind her back, a sleek, deadly hawk disguised as a fluffy pink dove. Decision made, she stopped first on her mother's left and slowly sat across her lap, rigid back to her dwindling father. She draped her left arm about her mother's shoulders, her slender little right hand raised to trail fingertips lightly through the mixture of blood and tears on the woman's twice surgically altered cheek. The things some people willingly subjected themselves to. Although, he figured he should be just a bit grateful. Peoples' insecurities were, after all, the cornerstone of all he had gained. Whatever the woman saw on her baby's face had her using the very dregs of whatever strength remained to her in forming her terrified expression. She looked as if she had a thousand things to say, but could only manage a single pitiful moan.

 

"It's silly to cry now," the girl rebuked. "You didn't cry when father was hurting me. Because he wasn't hurting you anymore. You still kept getting surgeries, even though they weren't actually fixing anything." The little one then observed, as if watching a nature program, the proverbial and literal light go out of her mother's eyes as she exsanguinated. She then hopped down and transferred to her father's lap. This wasn't the gesture of a child, safe and secure on Daddy's knee, or perched facing him so they could play a pat-a-cake. No, this was a womanly gesture. She straddled him suggestively, grabbing the top of the chair behind his head so she could lean back and stare into his face. She looked at him with the same curiosity displayed for her maternal half, but her body language screamed things that were so completely out of place in a child's manner, James almost had to look away. Death was a fact. So was subjugation. He had no problem killing people, directly or indirectly. Nor was there any issue with selling people, men, women, or children who fetched the highest prices. But what their owners did with their property, how they executed these facts, was for the privacy of their own circle. Desire was something one chose to indulge in. It wasn't on the same level as addiction or compulsion or anything else that drove people to actually accomplish a goal. One couldn't have what they wanted through desire alone. Steps had to be taken and some, even _he_ disliked watching.  

 

Her rage was a palpable thing, barely contained at first, then visibly shoved into some recess of her soul to be used for fuel. She spoke to James and Sebastian then, refusing to acknowledge her father as anything more than furniture, or perhaps an interesting piece of sculpture. Certainly not something that could hear her. At first, her words just tugged at their hearts with a single statement. They were then won over completely with two questions.

 

"I read somewhere, " she pondered, cocking her head to the ponderously to the left,  "about a man who had raped a girl only a year older than me. Her father and uncle found this man, beat him, castrated him, then cut. his. throat." She leaned in close on the last three clipped words, her lips a hair's breadth from his.

 

She then snapped back again, turning her little yellow head to look over her left shoulder at the couple who stared rapturously at what roughly equated to the birth of a new star.

 

"May I have his testicles when you're finished?" 

 

That was the key to a new room in Jim's mind devoted entirely to this girl. She correctly took his indulgent little smile as an answer in the affirmative. 

 

"How do you properly slit someone's throat?"

 

And there went the last of Moran's resolve to keep his distance.

 

Sebastian approached her back, and pressed the knife he'd been using into her little palm. "A bit big," he mentioned gruffly over his shoulder, his small Irish village tone as different from Moriarty's own Dubliner lilt as night and day.

 

"She'll have her own soon, Kitten." 

 

"Kitten?" came her inevitable query.

 

"I'm his ferocious predator," he stated, expression neutral. "Like Shere Khan in the Jungle Book."

 

"I love that movie."

 

"Me, too."

 

With a decided nod, Moran continued with a brief lesson in anatomy which she readily absorbed. He closed a calloused hand over a baby soft one and guided the blade across the correct areas until they were properly severed, an almost lava-like flow coursing downward to fill in the few portions of the man's neck untouched by his own blood.

 

"Not bad for your first go," Sebastian commented. "If he hadn't been bled so much, it would've been a spray instead of a waterfall." Her expression was one of genuine disappointment at not having had the opportunity to witness that. There would be other times. He would make sure of it. For now he had to signal the stage crew to rearrange things, which he did with a simple text on his way out, absently taking the child's hand when she slipped it into his. She looked distastefully down at her attire.

 

"My brand new dress is ruined." The ensuing pout was adorable.

 

"I'll acquire as many as you wish, Calumina," he promised. She wrinkled her button nose in confusion.

 

"Calumina? What's  _that_?" 

 

"Your name, little bird. It means Dove."

 

"I like it."

 

"Of course you do."

**Author's Note:**

> I have ideas about more that are even more fucked up but I'm apprehensive. Let me know if I should continue.


End file.
